The King's Whisper

by T. S. Cleveland

  He searched the road excitedly, but saw nothing but the bleeding guard lowered to his knees. The second guard, the carriage driver, and Merric all stood with their swords out, their royal emblems flashing in the bright sun. To Felix’s eyes, there were no bandits to be seen. He felt a twinge of disappointment and sank back into the carriage cushions.

  “I thought I saw movement in the trees ahead,” the arrow-stricken guard heaved, and Felix breathed a sigh of relief. Clearly, the wound wasn’t so serious that the man couldn’t speak.

  “I don’t see anything,” the other guard said as each man continued to survey their surroundings.

  Outside his window, Merric kept his sword at the ready, and the melody Felix had been composing earlier returned to him, playing loudly in his head. How brave he looked, and handsome. Merric didn’t look like an apprentice; he looked like a guardian, all brute strength and courage.

  Felix sighed, admiring the way Merric’s dark auburn hair glimmered in the sun like rubies, lost in the sight. There was no sound, no sign of approach. He was constructing a verse about Merric’s broad shoulders, and wondering if it would be overkill to dedicate an entire verse to them, when a large hand covered his mouth and he was wrenched out through the open window.

  Felix kicked, his feet hitting the roof of the carriage, and Merric spun around, briefly meeting his huge, horrified eyes as he was pulled away. Merric stood stunned for a moment, his breath hanging heavy in the air, and then he sprang into action.

  “Felix!” Merric raced around the back of the carriage, but strong arms were already dragging him backwards into the tree line.

  Felix struggled, his arms flailing, his legs kicking wildly, but whoever held him was holding him tight. He could see Merric coming for him, and the second guard, even the driver. They would catch the man dragging him away; he knew it. He knew it up until the moment more arrows zoomed past his head. One struck the second guard in the arm, and one hit Merric in his bad leg, sending him falling forward, gasping.

  Felix’s screaming was muffled by a hand, but he could see the people moving forward with their bows drawn, the lower halves of their faces obscured by black bandanas. Bandits. One approached Merric, aiming an arrow at his head, even as he tried to stagger to his feet. Felix bucked his head back, smashing into the nose of the bandit holding him. He heard a string of curse words in his ear before he was dropped. He scrambled forward in the snow.

  Beyond Merric, he spotted the second guard being taken down, his sword knocked uselessly from his hand. The first guard was lying face first on the road now, a bandit leaning over him, his fingers pressed to his neck.

  The bandit with an arrow pointed at Merric was saying something, but Felix couldn’t hear past the blood pounding in his ears. He crawled towards them and his hand reached out, grabbing the bandit’s ankle with the intention of yanking him off balance. But before he could tighten his grip, he was hauled to his feet. He turned, punching blindly and hitting nothing, and then an arm closed around his neck and started to squeeze.

  He could still see Merric, could see his mouth moving, shaping his name. He could see him surging to his feet and stabbing his sword at the man with the arrow. He could see Merric fighting until his vision started to dim. His hands battered weakly at his assailant’s crushing forearm as his air was cut off. He felt himself sag in the bandit’s arms and his eyes shut.

  When he opened them again, he was being swung over someone’s shoulder. And then he couldn’t see Merric anymore. “Merric!” he screamed, coughing, his throat tender. He tried to twist his body, tried to catch a glimpse of him, but all he could see was red in the snow where the bandit carrying him was dripping blood from his nose. A second later, he heard the loosing of an arrow and a grunt. He heard a body falling. “Merric! Merric!”

  There was no answer, just the harsh breathing of the bandit who carried him as he began to run.

  ***

  It was worse than being in Rex’s wagon, being carried over his abductor’s shoulder. His head pulsed with pressure from being upside down, and his stomach ached from the unforgiving shoulder pressing into his guts, knocking around his insides as they kept a steady jog through the trees.

  After several minutes of running, they reached a clearing, where saddled horses were tethered to the trees, nudging their noses into the snow in search of grass. Felix was thrown over the back of one of the animals, stomach down, and the bandit swung up behind him. He barely had time to breathe before they were off again, several sets of hooves joining them in their canter. He bounced miserably with every step, and only the hand of the bandit pressing into his back kept him on the horse.

  His vision was better than it had been upside down over a shoulder, and when he turned his head he could see more horses, and more bandits sitting astride them. They all wore black bandanas over their faces and thick furs around their shoulders. The clothes beneath looked like random scraps of leather and fur and cloth stitched together. He could see no swords at their belts, only bows strapped to their backs. There were five of them that Felix could see—including the one currently sharing a horse with him—and one of them had shot Merric. His eyes blurred with unshed tears as he tried his best to stay calm. If Merric was still alive, he would come for him.

  If he was still alive.

  Felix had an awful feeling in his chest, a pang in his heart that made him doubt the likelihood of a rescue from Merric, or anything from Merric ever again. He let his mind drift blankly while the horse bounced his body carelessly about, seeing red snow every time he closed his eyes.

  The horses came to a stop about an hour later, but it felt like ages to Felix. The bandit jumped from the saddle and lifted him from the horse like he weighed nothing at all. He collapsed as soon as his feet hit the ground, his head swimming and his vision blackening around the edges. The voices surrounding him sounded far away.

  “Careful, Princeling, you’ll make a mess of yourself.”

  “Don’t want to muss the lace collar.”

  “You want to look nice for King.”

  He was lifted and held up between two burly men, who began dragging him forward, his feet barely scraping the ground. With great effort, he blinked away the dizziness, and a horde of covered faces came into focus, walking with him as he was dragged into what appeared to be a camp. It was large, filled with rows of tents and several fire pits. He was even swept past a clothesline, where underclothes and furs were hanging by wooden pins.

  “Where are you taking me?” he asked groggily, because he wasn’t so sure his captors were bandits anymore. In the songs, bandit camps were monstrous places, with prisoners crying in cages and heads on spikes. Not a single one had mentioned anything about laundry.

  “Why, to see King, of course,” replied one of the men holding him up. Felix turned his head to look at his face. All he could really see were his eyes, as the rest of his features were covered, but the eyes were plenty interesting on their own, smudged in a black coal, and reminding him of the folk who sometimes visited taverns with low-cut bodices and purses to fill.

  “King?” Felix repeated, sure he’d misunderstood. “Viridor has no king.”

  The gathering of people—now a small crowd—all began to laugh. The man at Felix’s side shook his head in amusement. “Not talking about a King of Viridor, Princeling. I’m talking about the bandit king.”

  “Wha—”

  He squawked in surprise as he was thrown to the ground at the center of camp, and the bandits roared with laughter, making his head ache even worse. He stood slowly—still lacking proper balance due to his inversion of the last hour—and looked up at the dais before him. Sitting in a chair, draped in black furs, was a man, and when he held up his hand, the bandits’ laughter tapered into silence.

  “What is this?” the man asked, not moving from his seat. He stared down at Felix with an air of disinterest, but Felix could not say he did the same, because the man before him required his full attention. His hair was as black as the fu
r pelts he wore across his shoulders, and his scrape of heavy stubble highlighted the sharpness of his cheekbones. His mouth fell into a frown as he continued to study him, but Felix was more afraid of his eyes than his sour expression. They were enthralling, a bizarrely entrancing hazel, outlined with charcoal smudging, same as the others.

  Felix quivered before his glare. He’d never heard of a bandit king, had no idea what the title meant, but if any man could be the King of Bandits, this was the one.

  He spoke again. “Is someone going to tell me why this boy is in my camp or am I meant to guess?”

  “He’s a nobleman, King,” boasted the man who’d hauled him through the forest. “Had a royal guard taking him from the queen’s country palace.”

  That was enough to knock the shock from Felix’s throat. “What? I’m not a nobleman!” he shouted.

  The bandit king lifted his eyebrows; they were thick, serious, and clearly prone to furrowing. “He says he’s not a nobleman,” he said, sounding none too amused.

  “He was traveling in a royal carriage,” continued the bandit. “He had two royal guards and a personal bodyguard, all armed with the queen’s emblem. He’s either a little princeling or a nobleman’s son. Look at his clothes.”

  “I’m not!” Felix protested, tugging at the lacy fringe of his shirtsleeves. “I’m a flautist! I’m just a flautist!”

  “Oh yeah?” asked the bandit. “What kind of flautist carries this kind of coin around in his pockets, eh?” Without warning, he dug his hand into Felix’s trousers to fish out the velvet pouch, and Felix yelped, swatting at his arm and trying to wriggle away. A moment later, the bandit presented the pouch and tossed it toward the king.

  The king poured the coin onto his palm, and gold spilled over his hand and into his lap. He continued to stare intensely at Felix.

  “I know you said to focus on the goods and not try for a hostage, but it was the perfect opportunity,” the bandit rattled on. “We can ransom him!”

  “You can’t!” Felix cried out. It seemed no one was listening to him, despite the rising shrillness of his voice. “I’m not a princeling or a nobleman’s son. I’m no one’s son at all! I’m a flautist and nothing more. There’s no coin to be made off me. I swear it!”

  The bandits laughed again, but the king silenced them quickly with a single look. When he spoke, his voice was unexpectedly soft, but no less terrifying. “Very well,” he said. “If there is no coin to be made, we have no use of you, do we?”

  Felix felt a rush of relief sweep through him. “You mean you’ll let me go?”

  The king looked at him, tilting his head in bemusement. “No. If you’re not a noble, there’s no reason to keep you alive.”

  The camp remained silent, not even the bandits making a peep. Felix backed up, staggering on trembling legs, and knocked into a hard body behind him. He gasped and shuffled back forward, but there was nowhere to run. He spun around helplessly, surrounded, until the king spoke again.

  “A flautist, you said?” he asked.

  “I don’t see a flute, King!” one of the bandits yelled from the crowd.

  “I don’t see one either,” the king agreed, looking expectantly at Felix.

  “I have two flutes in my satchel,” Felix said, reaching into the bag and grasping the first flute he felt in his hand. He pulled it out, silver flashing in his palm. “This one is worth a lot of coin,” he began desperately. “You could sell it. I’ll give it to you, please, but don’t kill me.”

  The bandit king seemed to think it over as he returned the spilled coin to the velvet pouch. When he had the strings tied up again, he shoved it in his pocket and returned a cold stare to Felix, steepling his hands beneath his chin.

  “Play me a song, Flautist,” he ordered. “If I like what I hear, you can live.”

  “What?” Felix tucked a curl behind his ear, sure he had heard wrong.

  “Play me a song,” the bandit king repeated slowly. “If I like it, I won’t kill you. Or are you one of those rare flautists who don’t know how to play their instrument?”

  “I can play it,” he huffed defensively.

  A few of the bandits laughed again and the king’s mouth quirked up into a maddening smirk. “Can you? Let’s see.”

  Felix lifted the flute to his mouth and closed his eyes. He’d often wondered what his favorite melody was, which song—if he had to choose—he would pick to play, if he could only ever play one for the rest of his life. He could never decide. It was impossible. And no more could he choose his favorite now, even with his life—very literally—in his hands. So he didn’t try to reach for his favorite tune. Instead, he tried to think of the hardest piece he knew, the most complicated, one that would prove to the smug-faced bandit king that he was not only a flautist, but the best flautist he would ever be lucky enough to hear. There was a tune called “Wolf Run” that came to mind, and he began to play it.

  He kept his eyes shut as he pursed his lips and let his fingers dance across the keys. When the queen had gifted him the flute, he’d never imagined the first time he’d play it would be for a crowd of bloodthirsty villains, but somehow his company did little to decrease his pleasure in playing. The flute’s voice was high and clear and pure, the weight of it just right as he weaved a melody into the air of the bandit camp. “Wolf Run” was a fast-paced tavern song, meant for the height of the evening, when all the patrons were drunk and everyone wanted to dance and stomp their feet. Felix had long ago mastered its quick key changes, and knew exactly how his fingers looked as they tapped note after note with perfect precision.

  As he let the song move him by instinct, he concentrated on prayer, for all the good it would do. Don’t let this be my last song, he pleaded. Let me live, let me live, let me live.

  No one could accuse his life of being extraordinary. His eighteen years of story was shamefully threadbare. He’d been born in a little village a day’s walk from the guild. So little, in fact, that it didn’t even have a proper name, and besides his occasional travels with Rex, he’d never ventured far from it. His father was a wandering vagabond who’d wandered off one day and never wandered back. His mother had died when he was nine, leaving him an orphan, but the villagers were kindly, and he’d been given a job waiting tables at the local inn. On the day of his thirteenth birthday, a caravan of musicians had traveled through on their way to the Royal Quarter, and after their departure, he’d discovered a flute in the stable. Unable to resist, he’d picked it up, and held on to it while he waited for someone to return and claim it. When no one did, he taught himself how to play. It came naturally to him; he was praised for his talent. The innkeeper let him perform for tips, always making enough to get by, but never more than that. Most nights, he slept in a barn—arguably more comfortable than it sounded—and wrote songs from stories he’d heard from travelers. That had been his life, plain and humble, until he’d met Scorch. Now that things were finally getting interesting, he had no intention of being snuffed out by bandits.

  He played the final section of “Wolf Run”, pouring himself into it, wishing, hoping it was good enough to keep his life. After the last ringing note echoed through the camp, he finally opened his eyes.

  The bandit king was leaning forward in his makeshift throne, his expression one of uncertainty. Felix looked around at the rest of the bandits and found a mixture of surprise and amusement in their eyes. Well, he was glad they found his predicament amusing, because he certainly didn’t. He waited a few more moments for the king to speak, but when he was met with more intolerable silence, he pressed. “D-did you like it, Your Majesty?” he asked, flinching when the bandits laughed at the presumed moniker.

  The bandit king just stared at him unhappily.

  “I can p-play you something else, if you prefer something slower,” Felix went on, fiddling with the flute in his shaky hands. “I sing, as well, if you’d like me to sing you a song.”

  Finally, after more awkward staring, the king shifted back in his seat with a smi
rk. “That won’t be necessary.”

  Felix put the flute back in his satchel and tried to keep the tremor from his voice. “Are you going to kill me?” he asked.

  Terrible silence, and then, “No.”

  His entire body buzzed with relief, and he smiled brightly at the bandit king. “Oh, thank you. Thank you. So I can go?”

  “No,” the king answered, standing up from his chair. He looked like a giant up on the dais, but when he jumped off the edge and came to stand in front of Felix, he was only a few inches taller. Felix cowered a bit in the shadow of him, but found he couldn’t take his eyes away from his face now that it was so close. The man had flecks of icy blue in the hazel irises of his eyes, and his mouth curved once more into a frown, making Felix wonder if that was the natural shape his lips formed.

  “No?” he asked, taking a step back and knocking into another bandit. He surged forward in his haste to move away and nearly knocked into the king’s chest. “Y-you can have my flute to sell, like I said.”

  There was a wave of snickers, and the king’s mouth lifted into another smirk. “What use is a flute without a flautist?”

  Felix’s eyes widened as he made the connection. “Oh no!” he exclaimed. “Please don’t sell me. Please.” Before he could stop himself, his fingers were burrowing into the thick furs of the man’s pelt and tightening there. He knew what happened to people sold to the Circle, and he would never survive it. “Please. You can’t.” For a second, the king’s eyes widened in surprise, but the moment passed quickly, and then he was holding Felix’s wrists and prying him off his furs.